UC-NI 


27    fl?3 


P   S 

3500 

B3 

T6 

1915 

MAIN 


THE  TOWN 
>¥HERE  I  WAS  BORN 


GIFT 


J 


L^7  A-L-t^^C^.  ^^  eX-Li 


301 


THE  TOWN 
WHERE  I  WAS  BORN 


STORIES  of  OLD  WICKFORD 

By 
W.    C.    B. 

TOLD  IN  RHYME 

By 
S.    M.    B. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

HELEN   MASON  GROSE 


PASADENA    .     CALIFORNIA 
1915 


'fef/    f\N«! 


Contents 


Preface    .  11 

The  Town  Where  I  Was  Born 13  J^  A-  I  A  i 

Hen  'n  Me 14 

Joy  Ridin'  in  the  Hearse 18 

The  Lonesome  Man 19 

Thanksgiving 21 

In    the   Woodshed 25 

Gettin'   Religion...  27 

§ 

A  Sufficient  Reason 28 

Theft  of  a  Church 29 

Jest  Like  Ma 30 

Plenty  to  Do 32 

Hannah 35 

Joe  Perkinses  Lad 38 

Parson  Jim's  Dilemma 39 

When  the  Jail  Burned  Down 41 

The   Village   Fool 42 

Sandy   versus    Summer 44 

The  Village  Liar... 46 

The  Hearth  Motto  51 

The   Whistlin'    Poet 53 

Chums  Yet 56 

Memorial  Day  .  58 


List  of  Illustrations 

Frontispiece 

In  the  Woodshed 24 

"A  Lonely  House  Stands  Keeping  Its  Memories  of 

Vanished   Days" 34 

"In  the  Dusk  of  Summer  Evenings  We  Sat  on  the 

Latticed   Porch"....  50 


Preface 


As  when  a  school  boy  turns  his  pockets  out 
Finding  new  pleasure  in  forgotten  things — 
A  copper  penny  to  make  bright, 
Tops,  marbles,  fish  hooks,  bits  of  strings, — 
So,  fumbling  in  the  corners  of  my  mind 
Old  memories  like  re-discovered  treasure 
Full  of  Life's  trivial  happenings 
Awake  to  bring  forth  pain  and  pleasure. 


The  Town  Where  I  Was  Born 

Its  just  a  quiet  little  town 

The  town  where  I  was  born, 

With  great  elms  shading  the  long  streets 

And  grimy  wharves  where  fishing  fleets 

Go  forth  at  break  of  dawn. 

And  simple  folk  dwell  in  the  town 
The  town  where  I  was  born, 
Sea-faring  men  with  faces  brown 
Whistling  as  they  go  up  and  down 
Make  music  in  the  morn. 

And  in  and  out  around  the  town 
This  town  where  I  was  born, 
The  bay  slips  up  through  reedy  creeks 
Where  many  a  tired  wild  fowl  seeks 
Rest  from  its  flight  forlorn. 

Up  on  the  hill  in  this  old  town 
The  town  where  I  was  born, 
The  'Cademy  is  standing  still, 
And  on  its  fence  the  whippoorwill 
Still  chants  his  note  of  scorn. 

Oh,  happy  days  in  the  old  town 
The  town  where  I  was  born, 
Then  every  neighbor  was  a  friend, 
My  heart  will  cherish  to  the  end 
These  leaves  from  memory  torn. 


Thirteen 


Hen'n  Me 

Onct  on  a  time  long  while  ago 

When  I  wuz  jest  a  kid, 

I  gotter  skeer  and  say,  you  know, 

I  hollered  some  I  did. 

Hen  Gardner'n  me  wuz  settin  round 

Old  Uncle  Asa's  store, 

A  listening  to  the  tales  they  told 

Them  old  sea  cap'ns  four. 

Cap'n  Jim  'n  Cap'n  Ben 

An'  Cap'n  Hardy  too 

Wuz  sorter  clustered  roun  the  fire 

Talkin  to  Cap'n  Blue. 

We  kinder  hoped  ef  we  fussed  round 

Old  Uncle  Asa'd  say 

"Here  boys,  jest  take  these  pepmint  sticks 

An'  then  git  out  the  way." 

So  sure  enuf  when  it  got  dark 

He  looked  at  us  an  said 

"Come  boys  you'd  better  git  along, 

Time  youngsters  wuz  in  bed." 

Hen  Gardner  he  piped  up  an  said 

Please  gimme  a  stick  o'  candy, 

An'  Billy  here  thinks  one  of  them 

Jawbreakers'd  come  in  handy." 

Well  Uncle  Asa  laughed  an  lit 

The  one  old  whale  oil  lamp, 

It  shone  right  on  a  puddle  when 

We  stepped  out  in  the  damp. 

'N  Hen  says  "Aw,  don't  let's  go  home, 

Fourteen 


Let's  hide  behind  the  boxes," 

So  we  crept  in  at  the  back  door 

Ez  sly  ez  little  foxes. 

The  folks  wuz  talkin  about  ha'nts 

An'  how  they  wuz  deceiving 

But  Uncle  Asa  said  fer  him 

Why  seein'  wuz  believin'. 

'N  Cap'n  Hardy  'lowed  ez  how 

He'd  seen  a  ship  load  of  'em, 

With  inky  blackness  all  around 

An'  fiery  skies  above  'em. 

He  said  ez  you  could  almost  hear 

The  men  an  women  screamin, 

Cos  pirates  hed  the  ship,  an  all 

The  decks  with  blood  wuz  streamin. 

'Twus  over  in  Long  Island  Sound 

This  dretful  sight  he  seen, 

An'  all  the  neighbors  far  and  near 

Called  it  the  "Palatine." 

Well,  Hen'n  me  begun  to  feel 

Not  quite  up  to  the  mark, 

We'd  liked  to  skin  out  but  wuz  skeered 

To  go  home  in  the  dark. 

So  there  we  set,  an'  Cap'n  Jim 
Said  that  wuz  jest  a  pleasure 
Beside  the  story  HE  could  tell 
Of  huntin'  fer  Kidd's  treasure. 
He  said  ez  how  one  stormy  night 
Blind  Jerry  Wells  an'  he 
Went  over  to  Plum  Island  beach 
To  dig  for  gold  monee. 
For  everybody  knew  'twas  there, 

Fifteen 


An'  how  old  Cap'n  Kfdd 

Had  cut  three  Injuns'  head  right  off 

An'  laid  'em  on  the  lid 

Of  the  strong  box  that  held  the  gold, 

And  if  you  made  a  sound, 

Them  Injuns  would  rise  up  an  run 

To  seize  what  you  had  found. 

So  he'n  Jerry  dug  away 

'N  pretty  soon  they  struck  it, 

They  started  in  to  lift  the  box 

But  jest  before  they  tuck  it 

Blind  Jerry  swore  because  in  haste 

He  hit  his  knee  an'  stumbled, 

The  very  instant  that  he  spoke 

The  chest  to  dust  bed  crumbled. 

An'  Cap'n  Jim  he  saw  the  ghosts 

Of  those  three  Injun  braves, 

Rise  up  'n  snatch  their  gory  heads 

From  out  their  sandy  graves. 

But  jest  ez  he  got  to  that  part 

Hen  let  out  such  a  shriek 

That  all  hands  jumped  'n  Cap'n  Blue, 

Why  he  swore  a  blue  streak. 

But  we  wuz  blubbering  then  you  bet, 

An'  Uncle  Asa  told  us 

That  jest  to  calm  us  down  a  mite 

He'd  set  a  spell  an  hold  us. 

So  when  he'd  got  us  straightened  out 

We  started  home  agin, 

Hen  lived  right  across  the  street, 

So  he  got  safely  in. 

An'  then  I  started  down  the  road 

Ez  fast  ez  you  could  fiddle, 

Sixteen 


Aunt  Sukey  Brown  wuz  comin  up, 

I  hit  her  in  the  middle, 

My !  how  she  yelled !  an  ez  for  me 

I  up  and  gave  her  room  quick, 

For  I  wuz  sure  she  wuz  a  witch 

A  ridin  on  a  broom-stick. 

An'  when  I  got  to  my  back  door, 

I  tell  you  I  wuz  hummin'; 

I  jest  hung  blubbering  on  the  latch, 

But  Ma  she  heard  me  comin; 

An'  so  she  takes  me  in  an'  shuts 

The  kitchen  door  behind  me, 

An'  wraps  her  apron  round  me  so 

The  bogie  man  can't  find  me. 

An'  then  she  laughed  'n  said  I  wuz 

A  precious  little  silly. 

I  kinder  liked  it  when  she  called 

Me  "blessed  little  Billy." 


Seventeen 


Joy  Ridin'  in  the  Hearse 

There  wuz  jest  one  hearse  in  the  hull  town 

An'  so,  lackin'  in  competition, 

It  grew  kinder  rusty  an'  run  down 

Till  it  wan't  in  reel  good  condition. 

In  the  school  house  shed  it  useter  stand 

Lookin'  so  big  an'  so  black  an'  grand 

With   its   pampas   plumes   a-wavin', 

Thet  most  folks  felt  a  sort  of  awe 

An'  all  the  girls  would  say  "Oh  law! 

No  ride  in  thet  am  I  cravin'." 

But  us  boys  useter  take  it  out, 

Plumb  up  to  the  top  o'  the  hill, 

An'  then  with  youngsters  thin  an'  stout 

The  corpse's  place  we  would  fill, 

Then  "let  her  go  Gallighar,"  lickety  cut; 

The  plaguey  old  door  it  would  never  stay  shut 

An'  the  axles  went  a  creakin', 

But  over  the  bumpers  we  rattled  an  shook, 

An'  all  of  the  neighbors  would  run  out  to  look 

When  they  heard  us  come  a  shriekin'. 

I  bet  ef  the  fellers  who  took  their  last  ride 

In  thet  cart  we  sent  a  spinnin', 

Could  hev  seen  us  a  reelin'  from  side  to  side 

Thet  they  would  a  died  a  grinnin'. 

An'  when  we  got  to  the  foot  of  the  hill 

There  wuz  apt  to  be  a  bit  of  a  spill, 

Bruises,  but  nothing  worse, 

I've  hed  excitement  sence  in  my  day, 

But  nothin'  to  equal  thet  far  away 

Joy  Ridin'  in  the  Hearse! 

Eighteen 


The  Lonesome  Man 


A  lonesome  man  once  came  to  town 
(This  by  his  own  confession) 
He  was  a  carpenter  by  trade, 
A  preacher  by  profession. 

Such  was  his  zeal  he  preached  in  air 
While  sawing  wood  on  Monday 
And  sawed  in  air  while  preaching  to 
Good  folks  in  church  on  Sunday. 

At  "firstly",  off  his  necktie  came, 
At  "secondly"  his  collar, 
"Thirdly"  removed  his  coat  and  vest 
And  he  began  to  holler. 

But  neither  work  nor  piety 
Sufficed  his  soul  to  fill, 
This  preacher  man  was  lonesome, 
So  he  courted  with  a  will. 

Now  Rhody  Baker  was  the  maid 
On  whom  his  yearnings  tarried, 
But  she  had  vowed  a  solemn  vow 
She  never  would  get  married. 

He  hoped  that  he  could  change  her  mind, 
So  sought  her  dwelling  daily, 
But  if  she  heard  him  at  the  door 
She'd  run  away  most  gaily. 

Nineteen 


Her  rocking  chair  still  swaying  showed 
She'd  left  it  but  a  minute, 
But  he  could  never  chance  to  find 
The  chair  with  Rhody  in  it. 

Now  between  whiles  this  preacher  man 
Was  building  him  a  dory, 
And  he  bethought  him  that  it's  name 
Might  help  to  tell  the  story. 

So  in  big  letters  on  the  stern 
He  painted  "Rhody"  boldly, 
That  very  day  he  caught  the  lass, 
But  she  received  him  coldly. 

And  when  he  asked  her  to  be  his 
She  said  she  really  couldn't, 
Back  to  his  boat  he  went  again 
And  named  it  "Rhody  wouldn't." 


Twenty 


Thanksgiving 


When  Mother  pulled  the  table  out 
And  fetched  the  gilt-edged  china, 
We  children  thought  no  royal  feast 
Could  possibly  look  finer. 

Then  all  the  house  was  fragrant  with 
The  swell  of  turkey  cooking; 
Aunt  Betsy  told  us  not  to  peek, 
But  we  kept  on  a  looking. 

For  oh,  the  pantry  was  a  sight 

Most  luscious  to  discover, 

With  cakes  and  pies  and  tarts  both  ways — 

With,  and  without  a  cover. 


Benny  cracked  nuts,  and  Abby  rubbed 
Red  apples  till  they  shone, 
I  whipped  up  cream  so  white  and  stiff 
That  it  could  stand  alone. 

And  when  at  last  both  young  and  old 
Were  gathered  round  the  table, 
Each  girl  and  boy  resolved  to  eat 
As  much  as  they  were  able. 

Then  Father  stood  up  at  the  head 
With  gentle,  smiling  face, 
To  ask  that  all  the  bounty  spread 
Might  have  the  dear  Lord's  grace. 

Twenty-one 


The  way  he  said  "Our  Father" 
Made  me  feel  when  I  was  seven, 
That  he  meant  Grand-Pa  who  had  died 
And  gone  to  live  in  Heaven. 

So  near  and  close  the  presence  came 
Through  words  that  he  let  fall — 
"Dear  Father,  bless  us  every  one, 
The  little  ones  and  all." 

How  often  through  the  years  now  gone, 
At  banquets  grand  and  fine, 
I've  heard  those  words  and  longed  once  more 
For  days  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne." 


Twenty-two 


In  the  Wood  Shed 

Ma'  gen'ly  calls  me  her  little  Billy, 
But  tonight  it's  dest  old  Bill, 
An'  she  left  me  here  in  'er  shed  alone 
An'  told  me  I  gotter  stay  still. 

Tain't  fair!     I  wuz  tryin'  to  be  good, 

An'  spechully  perlite 

To  all  ze  sewin'  circle  folks, 

Wen  old  Miss  Susan  White 

Sez  "Willy,  wat  you  thinkin'  'bout, 
Sittin'  so  quiet  there?" 
An'  everybody  stopped  to  look 
At  me  in  my  small  chair. 

An'  I  sez  orfully  perlite, 
"I'm  wishin'  hard,  Miss  Sue, 
When  I  grow  up  zat  I  can  have 
A  moustache  dest  like  you." 

An'  all  ze  sewin'  ladies  laughed 
An'  shook  zemselves  until 
Ze  tears  rolled  down  into  zere  laps, 
But  Ma — she  called  me  Bill, 

An'  said  I'd  gotter  have  my  tea 
Along  er  colored  Mabel, 
Ze  hired  girl,  and  couldn't  come 
To  eat  at  ze  first  table. 

Twenty-five 


An'  zeres  chicken  'n  ham  'n  five  kinds  o'  cake, 
An'  biscuit  'n  chocolate  'n  tea, 
An'  everybody's  eatin'  now, 
Everybody  but  me. 

An'  I  feel  all  gone  in  my  insides, 
'Cause  I  ain't  et  nothin'  since  noon 
'Cept  three  slices  er  bread  'n  a  piece  er  pie. 
I  guess  I  shall  die  pretty  soon. 

But  all  zose  mean  folks  eatin'  zere 
Zat  chicken  wat  Ma  is  carvin' 
Are  dest  so  cruel — Zey  don't  care  a  bit 
For  a  poor  little  boy  who  is  starvin'. 

But  when  zey  finds  me  deaded  up, 
I  kinder  guess  Ma  will 
Be  orful  sorry  she  acted  so 
An'  zat  she  called  me  Bill. 


Twenty-six 


Gettin'  Religion 


All  the  folks  are  gettin'  religion 
Because  salvation's  free; 
But  things  that  I  don't  pay  for 
Ain't  much  use  to  me. 

The  other  night  in  meetin', 
Follerin'  his  natteral  bent, 
Old  Bascom  shouted  "Come  git  grace, 
'T'wont  cost  a  single  cent." 

An'  I  riz  up  and  answered, 
"Lord,  save  your  stingy  soul, 
Your  kind  o'  grace  ain't  fit  to  tech, 
Not  with  a  ten  foot  pole. 

"Our  Christ  sweat  blood,"  sez  I,  "to  earn 
The  right  to  say  'Amen, 
Thy  will,  not  mine,  oh  Lord,  be  done.' 
Grace  came  not  easy  then." 

"The  peace  o'  God,"  sez  I,  "don't  come 
Through  prayer  and  idle  sittin', 
But  doin'  what  we  think  is  right. 
What's  worth  havin's  worth  the  gittin'." 

No!    I  ain't  got  religion, 
Though  nearly  all  my  days 
I've  done  the  very  best  I  could 
To  f oiler  in  His  ways. 

Twenty-seven 


A  Sufficient  Reason 

Joe  Perkins  had  more  children 
Than  any  man  in  town, 
He  likewise  had  less  money 
And  his  house  was  tumbling  down. 

The  neighbors  held  some  sewing  bees 
To  make  his  children  clothing; 
For  ragged,   dirty  imps  they  were, 
Objects  of  righteous  loathing. 

Fourteen  there  were  by  careful  count, 
And  likely  to  be  more; 
He  had  not  chairs  enough  for  all, 
So  some  sat  on  the  floor. 

Not  one  of  them  could  read  or  write, 
And  work  they  simply  wouldn't; 
They  didn't  do  a  thing  they  should, 
But  everything  they  shouldn't. 

Old  Doctor  Shaw  once  said  to  Joe, 
"Why  have  so  many  of  'em?" 
Joe  scratched  his  head  and  made  reply, 
"B'gosh,  because  I  love  'em!" 


Twenty-eight 


The  Theft  of  a  Church 


There  have  been  strange  thefts  since  the  world  began, 

An  apple  once  caused  the  fall  of  man, 

And  all  of  Greece  and  Troy 

Was  plunged  into  war  because  Paris  stole 

The  beautiful  woman  who  pleased  his  soul 

And  filled  his  life  with  joy. 

The  diamond  necklace  of  a  Queen 
Was  a  robbery  bold  as  ever  was  seen, 
But  though  history  you  search, 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  thing  so  queer, 
Look  where  you  will  both  far  and  near, 
As  the  theft  of  a  country  church. 

But  it  happened  once  in  the  early  days, 
That  the  people  who  came  from  various  ways 
To  a  church  of  some  repute 
To  hear  Berkeley  preach  and  McSparren  pray, 
Soon  found  to  their  infinite  dismay, 
Themselves  in  hot  dispute. 

The  withdrawing  Elders,  stern  and  strong, 
Decided  to  take  the  church  along, 
No  matter  what  others  might  say. 
So  they  carted  it  off  up  hill  and  down, 
Till  they  landed  it  safe  in  the  old  town, 
Where  it  stands  at  the  present  day. 

For  all  the  brethren  who  were  left 

Of  a  place  for  worship  thus  bereft, 

Much  sympathy  we  feel; 

But  we  chuckle  at  those  who  took  the  toll, 

Each  praying  there  with  impenitent  soul 

In  the  church  he  had  helped  to  steal. 

Twenty-nine 


Jest  Like  Ma 


Ma  Allen  lived  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
She  knew  when  a  neighbor  chanced  to  be  ill 
And  what  made  the  babies  cry; 
And  everything  she  didn't  know 
She  sort  of  suspicioned  might  be  so, 
Cause  why? 

Cause  she  was  lonesome  and  sat  all  day 
Rocking  and  knitting  and  talking  away, 
Dressed  up  in  her  black  lace  mitts. 
She  had  a  cat,  but  he  roamed  afar, 
Some  chickens,  too — and  then  she  had  Pa — 
But  Pa  had  fits. 

Of  course  poor  Pa  was  quite  a  care, 
For  he  had  his  fits  most  anywhere, 
And  his  wits  were  never  about  him; 
Ma  used  to  weep  and  say  it  was  true 
He  wore  on  her  but  what  could  she  do 
Without  him! 

And  so  she  sat  and  rocked  away, 
Talking  to  Pa  the  livelong  day 
Of  all  the  town  affairs; 
How  Sairy  Hull's  new  dress  was  blue 
And  Eben  Proughty's  Cousin  Sue 
Hed  put  on  airs. 

Thirty 


At  last,  as  often  happens,  Ma 
Got  worn  out  taking  care  of  Pa, 
And  so  at  sixty-seven, 
Although  she  never  meant  to  flout  him, 
She  found  that  she  could  live  without  him 
In  Heaven. 

Pa  grieved  so  when  she  went  away 
That  a  good  neighbor  came  one  day 
And  brought  him  in  a  Parrot, 
A  beautiful  bird  of  green  and  red 
With  a  hooked  beak  and  a  ruffled  head 
Of  Carrot. 

And  dear  me  how  that  bird  could  chatter, 
But  talking  didn't  seem  to  matter, 
It  sounded  good  to  Pa; 
'Twas  just  as  if  a  friend  he'd  found, 
He'd  smile  and  say  "Now  don't  that  sound 
Jest  like  Ma?" 


Thirty-one 


Plenty  to  Do 

City  feller  here  the  other  day, 
Sailing  with  me  across  the  bay. 
"Cap'n,"  sez  he,  "it's  surely  prime 
Down  here  in  the  good  old  summer  time, 
But  when  the  wintry  breezes  blow 
'Pears  like  it  must  be  doocid  slow. 
Cap'n,"  sez  he,  "now  tell  me  true, 
What  do  you  do?" 

"Young  feller,"  sez  I,  "to  tell  ye  true, 

Thar's  jest  two  things  I  allus  do, 

Perhaps  it  mought  seem  rayther  slow 

To  folks  as  allus  wants  to  go, 

But  while  you  fellers  air  eatin'  an*  drinkin', 

An'  givin'  an'  gettin', 

I'm  settin'  an'  thinkin', 

Waal,  sometimes — jest  settin'." 


Thirty-two 


Jf 


as 


Hannah 


Grey  as  the  mist  that  comes  creeping 

In  from  the  far  distant  bays, 

A  lonely  house  stands,  keeping 

Its  memories  of  vanished  days. 

Murmuring  like  an  empty  shell 

Held  close  to  the  listening  ear, 

Its  brooding  walls  might  softly  tell 

The  secret  of  many  a  year. 

And  the  story  which  lingers  and  echoes  there 

Is  of  Hannah's  love  and  Hannah's  despair. 

Hannah,  the  pride  of  counties  three ; 
Hannah,  the  darling  of  her  sire, 
No  maid  in  all  the  South  Countrie 
Rode  gaily  in  such  rich  attire. 
When  she  tripped  down  the  oaken  stair 
In  silk  and  lace,  with  jeweled  fan, 
A  rosebud  glowing  against  her  hair, 
She  stirred  the  heart  of  many  a  man. 
And  her  own  proud  wilful  heart  was  set 
On  the  man  her  father  bade  her  forget. 

The  lilacs  yet  stand  whose  purple  bloom 

Bent  fragrant  and  wet  above  her 

When  she  crept  one  night  through  the  misty  gloom 

To  meet  her  Tory  lover. 

Next  morning  she  rode  through  the  swinging  gate, 

Eyeing  her  groom  with  haughty  air; 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  she  bade  him  wait 

Till  she  should  return  to  find  him  there. 

Then  alone  she  galloped  up  hill  and  down, 

To  wed  her  lover  in  Boston  town. 

Thirty-five 


All  summer  the  Squire  sat  alone 

In  the  house  now  grown  so  strangely  still, 

While  crickets  in  dreary  monotone 

Chirped  "Hannah"  back  to  the  Whip-poor-will. 

All  winter  beside  the  great  hearth  fire 

He  waited  in  vain  for  a  voice  at  the  door, 

His  restless  feet  that  knew  no  tire, 

Went  back  and  forth  on  the  creaking  floor. 

And  the  north  wind  shaking  the  window  pane 

Shrieked  "Hannah,  Hannah,"  far  down  the  lane. 

The  air  grew  soft  with  promise  of  Spring, 

And  the  lilacs  shed  their  perfume  sweet 

Over  one  who  crouched,  a  broken  thing, 

Ragged  of  dress  and  weary  of  feet. 

With  lips  a-quiver  and  heart  aflame, 

Her  father  bent  over  her  there, 

Murmuring  her  well  beloved  name, 

He  bore  her  up  the  winding  stair 

To  the  dainty  room  of  rose  and  grey, 

Whose  mullioned  windows  looked  toward  the  bay. 

Woefully  sad  was  the  story  told 

While  she  tossed  and  moaned  with  fevered  brain, 

And  her  father's  face  grew  grey  and  old 

As  she  called  her  lover  again  and  again. 

With  promises  fair  he  had  sailed  away 

To  his  English  home  beyond  the  sea. 

She  had  waited  in  vain  a  year  and  a  day 

Ere  she  sought  again  the  old  roof-tree. 

Ah,  faithless  lover  who  never  came! 

Her's  was  the  sorrow  and  your's  the  shame! 

Thirty- six 


Then  she  who  had  ridden  forth  in  pride 

On  that  fair  morn  one  year  before, 

Came  back  on  foot  through  the  country  side, 

Begging  her  way  from  door  to  door. 

Still  hoping  and  loving  with  loyal  trust, 

She  cried  aloud  as  her  end  drew  nigh, 

"I  know  he  will  come,  but  if  die  I  must, 

Under  the  lilacs,  oh  let  me  lie. 

Some  day  he  will  ride  from  out  the  mist 

And  I  shall  be  there  to  keep  the  tryst." 

Grey  as  the  mist  that  comes  creeping 

In  from  the  far  distant  bays, 

The  lonely  house  stands  keeping 

Its  memories  of  vanished  days. 

And  whenever  the  fields  awaken, 

When  lilacs  bloom  in  the  lane, 

By  that  grave  so  long  forsaken, 

The  story  is  told  again. 

Then  children  and  lovers  whispering  there, 

Tell  of  Hannah's  love  and  Hannah's  despair. 


Thirty-seven 


Joe  Perkinses  Lad 

Betcher  can't  guess  what  I  got 
Nor  who  'twas  give  it  ter  me. 
'Taint  any  old  knife  nor  a  pup — 

No  Sirree. 

Yesterday  noon  I  wuz  down 
On  the  dock'n  Cap'n  Ben 
Came  in  on  his  sloop  and  when 
He  seed  me,  sez  he, 
"Ain't  you  Joe  Perkinses'  lad?" 
An'  he  give  this  ter  me. 
He's  the  grandest  man  in  town, 
An'  the  best  friend  I  ever  had. 

It's  a  whole  new  dollar  bill, 

An'  I'm  goin'  ter  keep  it  until 

I  git  three  or  four, 

Nuff  ter  set  up  a  store, 

An'  then  I'll  git  rich 

An'  mebby,  some  day, 

Cap'n  Ben  he'll  be  poor, 

An'  I'll  hitch  up  a  sleigh 

To  drive  ter  his  door 

Full  o'  good  things  to  eat, 

Lots  of  flour  an'  meat, 

An'  he'll  be  all  trimbly  and  old 

Standin'  there  at  the  door  in  the  cold, 

An'  he'll  be  s'prised  an'  say 

"Now  who  be  you  anyway?" 

An'  I'll  say  "I'm  Joe  Perkinses'  lad 

An'  you're  the  best  friend  ever  I  had.1 

Thirty- eight 


Parson  Jim's  Dilemma 

The  old  church  wanted  a  parson  bad, 

But  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  none  to  be  had; 

For  the  salary  certainly  wasn't  big, 

Fifty  dollars  a  year  with  a  cow  and  a  pig, 

And  a  tumble  down  house,  deny  it  who  can, 

Is  little  enough  for  the  average  man. 

And  yet  they  expected — for  folks  are  so  queer, — 

Much  learning  and  virtue  for  fifty  a  year. 

So  if  into  debt  he  would  keep  from  falling, 

The  man  who  was  called  must  have  other  calling 

And  so  when  a  godly  blacksmith  was  found 

Who  made  the  old  church's  rafters  resound 

As  he  pounded  his  fist  on  the  pulpit's  rim, 

The  call  and  election  was  surely  for  him. 

There  wasn't  much  that  he  couldn't  do 

From  driving  a  horse  to  mending  a  shoe. 

He  could  sail,  he  could  fish,  he  could  lay  a  stone  wall, 

And  he  knew  the  whole  truth  about  old  Adam's  fall. 

Had  a  beautiful  manner,  so  soft  and  polite, 

Kind  spoken  to  children — the  ladies'  delight. 

But  two  things  came  hard  to  good  Parson  Jim, 

They  were  writing  a  sermon  and  singing  a  hymn. 

At  the  singing  he  surely  put  up  a  good  bluff, 

Kept  working  his  mouth,  and  looked  solemn  enough 

To  be  Bispham  himself  or  Enrico  Caruso 

When  he  hoisted  his  chest  and  pompously  blew  so, 

But  sermons  he  certainly  could  not  write, 

Though  he  studied  the  Bible  and  worked  all  night; 

So  like  a  wise  fellow  he  borrowed  his  text, 

Thirty- nine 


His  discourse  as  well,  from  one  week  to  the  next. 

Sometimes  it  was  Spurgeon  and  sometimes  'twas  Beecher, 

He  read  straight  from  every  eloquent  preacher, 

And  never  concealed  the  fact  that  he  took 

His  sermon  from  some  quite  neatly  bound  book. 

But  one  of  the  deacons  begrudged  him  his  glory 

And  thought  that  he  ought  to  preach  extempore; 

Said  "twant  orthodox,  preachin'  thet  sort  of  way, 

Nor  scriptural  nuther,  if  he  had  his  way, 

Direct  inspiration  wuz  what  he  should  ask  for, 

An'  the  minister  ought  to  be  taken  to  task  for 

Readin'  them  sermons  as  wasn't  his  own, 

Let  Spurgeon  be  hanged  and  Beecher  be  blown." 

But  Parson  Jim  serenely  kept  the  tenor  of  his  ways, 
Till  rising  once  in  church  to  lead  an  hour  of  prayer  and 

praise, 

His  gaze  upon  the  deacon  fell  who  sat  there  full  in  view, 
Holding  the  Boston  Herald  up  and  reading  in  his  pew. 
The  Parson  coughed  ahem !  and  whispered  "Brother  Snow, 
Please  put  that  worldly  paper  up,  it  is  not  seemly  so." 
No  answer  from  the  Deacon  came,  and  flustered  Parson 

Jim 

Forsook  the  text  and  said  ahem !  they'd  sing  another  hymn. 
The  hymn  was  sung,  but  still  old  Snow 
Rustled  his  paper  to  and  fro. 
The  Parson,  leaning  from  his  perch, 
Said  "Brother,  please  not  read  in  church." 
The  Deacon  shouted  from  his  pew, 
"Why  can't  I  read  as  well  as  you?" 


Forty 


When  the  Jail  Burned  Down 

The  biggest  excitement  ever  in  town 

Was  when  the  old  wooden  jail  burned  down; 

'Twas  along  in  the  fall — a  frosty  night — 

And  there  wasn't  a  living  soul  in  sight, 

For  the  boys  were  all  at  a  fancy  ball 

That  the  Lodge  was  giving  in  Woodman's  Hall. 

Sol  Smith,  the  chief  of  the  fire  brigade, 

Was  dancing  there  with  an  Indian  maid. 

He  was  dressed  like  Old  Nick  with  horns  and  a  tail, 

And  a  parcel  of  imps  like  a  covey  of  quail 

Was  prancing  and  squealing  around  him  there 

When  the  clangor  of  fire  bells  filled  the  air. 

Sol  started  away  with  the  imps  at  his  heel, 

Leaving  right  in  the  midst  of  Virginia  Reel. 

It  didn't  take  long  to  reach  the  jail, 

Seize  hook  and  ladder  and  iron  pail 

And  work  like  the  Devil  he  looked  to  be, 

For  nobody  ever  was  quicker  than  he. 

Now  it  chanced  that  the  fire  was  set  by  a  lamp 

Overturned  in  his  sleep  by  a  drunken  tramp 

Who  woke  to  find  his  cell  in  a  blaze, 

And  saw,  to  his  horrified  amaze, 

The  devil  himself  in  the  midst  of  flame 

With  attendant  imps  whom  he  called  by  name. 

"The  Old  Boy  has  got  me,"  he  cried  with  a  yell, 

"At  last  I  have  died  and  gone  to" — well, 

It  doesn't  matter  what  else  he  said, 

For  much  that  he  uttered  shouldn't  be  read. 

But  it's  worth  recording  that  after  that  fright 

He  never  got  drunk  again — at  night. 

\ 
Forty-one 


The  Village  Fool 


When  the  slow  Spring  came  down  to  town, 
Touching  the  grass  to  quicker  green, 
When  buds  swelled  on  the  Elm  trees  brown 
And  Johnny  Jump  Ups'  heads  were  seen. 

Then  busy  house-wives  flung  the  windows  wide 
To  thrust  out  Winter  and  let  in  the  May, 
Small  blame  to  husbands  if  the  ebbing  tide 
Made  good  excuse  for  ling'ring  on  the  Bay. 

Attic  and  cellar  yielded  up  their  stores 
Of  ancient  feather  beds  and  musty  tins, 
Carpets  were  lifted  from  the  painted  floors 
And  ashes  carted  from  the  dusty  bins. 

Then  fields  were  ploughed,  and  anxious  men 
Toiled  through  the  day  with  dreary  eyes 
That  saw  the  clods,  but  knew  not  when 
They  missed  the  glory  of  the  skies. 

What  though  the  Springtime  called  and  Robins  sang! 
One  ear  alone  in  all  the  busy  town 
Heard  the  glad  summons  that  through  dim  woods  rang, 
And  caught  the  echoes  as  they  floated  down. 

One  only  had  the  wisdom  then 
To  turn  his  back  on  sordid  care 
And  sing  aloud  through  wood  and  glen 
With  joy  because  the  day  was  fair. 

Forty -two 


Shambling  through  lanes  and  roaming  far  afield, 
The  Village  Idiot  went  straying, 
He  knew  the  healing  that  each  herb  might  yield, 
He  knew  where  speckled  trout  were  playing. 

Secrets  were  his  than  saner  folk 
Could  never  learn  in  any  school, 
To  him  each  bee  and  bluebird  spoke, 
He  shared  their  joy — oh  Happy  Fool! 


Forty-three 


Sandy  versus  Summer 

I  met  up  wi'  Summer  a  coming  down  the  Pike, 

Sure  I  did,  Missis,  I'm  telling  of  you  true; 

She  caught  me  by  the  foot  as  nimble  as  could  be, 

Saying,  "Come  along,  Sandy,  come  and  play  wi'  me." 

Dearie,  me  ma'am  I  never  saw  her  like, 

Knew  it  wouldn't  please  you — but  what  could  I  do? 

So  I  goed  wi'  her  ma'am  across  the  fields  so  green, 
Never  thought  of  chores  at  home  but  just  went  along, 
She  took  me  to  a  sparrow's  nest  not  so  far  away — 
Three  speckled  eggs  and  the  bird  on  them  all  day, — 
'Bout  the  prettiest  nest  that  Sandy  ever  seen; 
And  that  little  sparrow  it  had  a  kinky  song. 

Yes,  Missis,  Kinky ,  just  like  a  little  vine, 

She  sort  of  twined  it  all  about  the  nest; 

Guess  when  eggs  are  hatched  the  baby  birds  will  sing 

Same  little  ripply  notes  from  underneath  the  wing; 

Guess  she'll  like  to  hear  'em — would  if  they  were  mine, 

Know  she'll  like  to  feel  'em  underneath  her  breast. 

Then  Sandy  followed  Summer  way  across  the  lot, 
Down  through  the  orchard  and  over  a  stone  wall, 
Came  to  where  a  brook  was  twistin'  in  and  out, 
Had  a  fish-line  wi'  me  and  caught  a  mess  o'  trout, 
Here  they  be,  missis,  everyone  I  got, 
Fry  'em  wi'  bacon,  they  won't  taste  bad  at  all. 

Forty- four 


Brook,  it  kept  a  talkin'  and  a  coaxin'  Sandy, 

Never  could  say  "no"  when  brooks  begin  to  talk, 

When  it  gurgles  so  and  sputters  over  stones 

Seems  just  like  the  water  had  real  friendly  tones. 

So  I  went  in  wadin',  'cause  it  seemed  so  handy, 

Lots  o'  sun  to  dry  my  feet  and  make  'em  white  as  chalk. 

Brook  and  I  went  roamin'  on  down  to  a  big  pool, 
Pussy  Willows  growin'  all  around  the  edge, 
Found  some  Blue  Flag  missis — knew  you  liked  to  chew  it, 
Found  some  Boneset  too,  ma'am — thought  you'd  like  to 

brew  it. 

Sandy  knows  a  thing  or  two  if  he  is  a  fool, 
Picked  some  tansy,  too,  a-growin'  on  the  ledge. 

"Tansy  won't  feed  horses,  or  Boneset  milk  the  cow?" 
Ha-ha,  Missis,  Sandy  knows  that,  too. 
"Doesn't  I  feel  just  a  good  bit  ashamed?" 
Why,  Missis,  it's  summer  as  ought  to  be  blamed, 
I  tried  to  say  "No,"  but  I  couldn't  somehow, 
She  coaxed  me  so,  ma'am,  what  else  could  I  do? 


Forty-five 


The  Village  Liar 

Poor  Annanias!  he  hed  to  die 
For  jest  one  ornery  little  lie 
Thet  any  damn  fool  could  a  told, 
There  ain't  a  land-agent  livin'  today 
Thet  wouldn't  a  beaten  him  far  an'  away 
On  every  passel  he  sold. 

Takes  'magination  an  jedgment  to  make  a  good  liar, 

An'  neither  he  nor  his  wife  Sapphira 

Seem  to  hev  hed  the  gift; 

Ef  they  could  a  hung  around  the  door 

Of  Uncle  Asa's  corner  store 

'Twould  a  given  'em  quite  a  lift. 

It  certainly  did  beat  all  consarn 

To  hear  old  Eben  Proughty  yarn — 

'Twas  a  liberal  eddication 

The  way  he'd  talk  about  things  he  done, 

Hosses  he'd  swapped  and  risks  he'd  run 

With  doctors  and  medication. 

Eben  certainly  would  a  made  a  good  preacher, 

Or  mebbe  a  lawyer  or  some  kind  o'  teacher, 

His  lyin'  wras  easy  an'  glib; 

Led  up  to  what  he  wanted  to  say 

In  such  a  plausible  kind  o'  way 

That  you  never  suspected  a  fib. 

Forty- six 


I  reck'lect  well  one  August  day, 
Thunder  caps  hanging  over  the  bay 
And  growlin'  to  beat  the  band, 
We  sat  with  our  tongues  just  hangin'  out 
And  every  feller  thet  chanced  to  be  stout 
Hed  a  palm  leaf  fan  in  his  hand. 

There  warn't  a  collar  in  all  the  crowd, 

Nor  a  waist-coat  neither,  for  we  wan't  proud, 

And  'twas  everlastin'  hot; 

And  Sol  Smith  said,  ez  he  wiped  his  brow, 

"Ef  I  hed  a  melon  here  right  now 

I'd  eat  it  ez  like  ez  not." 

"Watermelon?"  sez  Eben  kinder  slow, 

"I  bet  you  fellers  don't  reely  know 

How  good  a  melon  kin  be. 

Old  Farmer  Brown  up  Stony  Lane 

Hed  melons — well,  say!  it  gives  me  a  pain 

To  think  of  'em — yes,  sirree! 

When  I  was  a  youngster,  to  save  my  soul, 
I  couldn't  eat  melon  except  it  was  stole, 
And  one  blisterin'  day  in  September 
I  climbed  into  old  Brown's  melon  patch, 
Tore  my  trousers  and  got  a  scratch 
On  the  picket  fence,  I  remember. 

I  searched  around  for  the  biggest  one, 
But  jest  as  I  started  to  hev  some  fun, 
I  heard  old  Brown  behind  me 
Callin'  his  bulldog — "Sick  him,  Towser! 
Catch  him  behind  in  the  full  o'  the  trouser ; 
Sick  him,  old  dog,  now  mind  me." 

Forty-seven 


I  hed  a  melon  hugged  to  my  chest, 
And  when  the  old  dog  came  abreast 
I  threw  it  over  the  wall, 
And  jest  as  I  was  gittin'  there  too, 
Towser  got  hold  o'  the  heel  of  my  shoe, 
But  he  didn't  hurt  me  at  all. 

And  say!  that  melon  was  surely  nice, 
Sweet  as  sugar  and  cold  as  ice. 
My!  I  wish  that  I  hed  it  now." 
A  sorrowful  pause  fell  on  all  around, 
And  Eben  gave  a  sobbin'  sound 
As  he  wiped  off  his  drippin'  brow. 

But  Sol  Smith  says,  in  a  doubtin'  way — 
"Of  course,  Eben,  it's  jest  as  you  say, 
But  it's  natteral  to  remember 
That  melons  is  apt  to  go  to  smash 
When  they  meet  with  any  kind  of  a  crash, 
And  it's  terrible  hot  in  September." 
That  didn't  feaze  Eben;  no,  sirree! 
He  was  jest  as  calm  as  a  man  could  be. 
Says  he,  "Wa'al,  I'll  hev  ye  to  know 
That  when  that  melon  flew  over  the  wall 
It  didn't  go  to  smash  at  all, 
For  it  lit  in  a  bank  of  snow  I'* 


Forty-eight 


The  Hearth  Motto 

The  year  was  in  the  blooming 
At  flood  of  the  Spring  tide, 
When  I  came  down 
To  the  old  town, 
Bringing  my  chosen  bride. 

And  oh!  but  the  world  was  merry, 

For  oh!  but  our  hearts  were  young, 

No  day  seemed  long 

For  jest  and  song 

Were  ever  upon  the  tongue. 

Under  the  boughs  of  an  orchard 

Whose  petals  fluttered  down 

In  a  rosy  foam 

We  made  our  home 

In  a  cottage  old  and  brown. 

And  we  wrote  across  the  hearth  where  we 

Were  beginning  life  together, 

"Here  shall  ye  see 

No  enemy 

Save  Winter  and  rough  Weather." 

And  I  said,  "Dear  wife,  be  it  ever  so, 

For  all,  whether  simple  or  grand, 

Who  enter  here 

Shall  meet  good  cheer 

And  a  welcome  of  heart  and  hand." 

Fifty-one 


In  the  dusk  of  summer  evenings 
We  sat  on  the  latticed  porch 
Where  the  firefly 
Went  dancing  by 
Waving  a  fairy  torch. 

And  we  talked  of  the  misty  future, 

Of  wonderful  things  to  be, 

Of  friendships  long 

And  a  love  that  was  strong 

For  time  and  eternity. 

And  now  the  year's  in  the  gloaming, 

And  Life's  on  the  ebbing  tide, 

Dry  leaves  fall  down 

In  the  old  town 

Where  I  took  my  youthful  bride. 

Far  from  that  hearth  have  we  roamed  and  long 

Have  we  traveled  Life's  road  together; 

By  our  fireside  glow 

There  is  still  no  foe 

Save  Winter  and  Rough  Weather. 


Fifty- two 


The  Whistlin'  Poet 

Lord!  how  I  wisht  I  could  sing; 

Sometimes  when  I'm  down  by  the  spring 

Or  plowin'  the  field, 

Seems  though  I  should  bust! 

I'm  plumb  full  of  it  all — 

The  smell  o'  the  earth,  the  blue  o'  the  sky 

And  birds  flyin'  high, 

It  jest  hurts! 

And  I  feel  'bout  the  way  the  dumb  critters  look 

When  they're  tryin'  to  tell  ye  what  ails  'em. 

I  wisht  I  could  sing  like  the  brook, 

But  I  cayn't  do  nothing  but  whistle. 

I  kin  carry  a  tune  but  the  words  won't  come, 

Seems  as  if  me  and  the  critters  was  dumb 

And  I  cayn't  tell  what  I'm  whistlin'  about; 

Lord  who  give  me  this  feeling,  oh  help  git  it  out! 

Why  thet's  rhymin' — oh  shucks!  the  idee! 

How  in  thunder'd  it  happen  to  me, 

I  didn't  mean  to,  it  came, 

Is  thet  the  way,  Lord  ? 

Do  ye  mean  it? 

Why,  I  hain't  hed  but  two  terms  o'  schoolin', 

Hed  to  work  on  the  farm  and  quit  foolin' 

Ever  since  I  was  ten. 

Never  knew  the  time  when 

I  wan't  toilin'. 

But  every  chanct  I  got  at  a  book 

'Twas  allers  the  poetry  ones  I  took, 

And  mebbe  that's  what's  boilin'  within  me. 

Fifty-three 


Why  I  feel  like  a  swarm  o'  bees 

Sailin'  among  the  trees; 

Don't  know  jest  whar  I  shall  light, 

But  feel  jest  ez  ef  I  might 

Settle  down  in  a  hive, 

Sakes  alive! 

Kin  I  make  poetry  like  honey? 

Gather  in  the  idees  from  the  flowers, 

Pack  'em  down  in  the  cells  o'  my  brain 

And  send  'em  streamin'  again 

Fit  for  nourishin'  folks? 

There  'tis  again, 

I  cayn't  sing,  only  whistle. 

When  I  try  to  think  of  a  rhyme 

It  flies  from  me  every  time 

Jest  like  a  bird  that  you're  chasin',  somehow 

Allers  flies  off  to  a  different  bough, 

I'll  hev  ter  be  a  Whistlin'  Poet! 

Ef  the  tune  is  all  right 

The  words  ain't  so  needful, 

Not  quite! 

Of  course  'taint  likely  I  shall  be 

A  poet  like  Shakespeare  or  Riley — jest  me. 

Folks  hev  to  write  about  what  they  know, 

Men  cayn't  talk  about  winter  thet  never  seen  snow. 

And  what  other  folks  like  to  hear,  they  say, 

Is  the  things  thet  don't  happen  to  them  every  day. 

I'm  so  full  of  it  all — the  birds  and  the  bees 

And  the  strength  o'  the  hills — 

I  know  I  kin  please 

In  tellin'  o'  these 

Fifty-four 


If  I  only  kin  whistle  the  tune. 

And  Lord!  you're  right  in  it, 

Thar  isn't  a  day 

Thet  I  don't  open  my  eyes  an'  say 

"I'm  watchin'  the  Lord  an'  his  glory, 

The  fields  tell  his  wonderful  story," 

And  my  thoughts  rise  right  up  to  the  mountain 

Seekin'  the  heavenly  fountain 

Of  life  on  the  summit. 

Oh  Lord,  if  I  find  I  kin  tell 

Of  the  things  you  hev  made 

And  the  places  wherein  you  do  dwell, 

Ye'll  know,  Lord,  I  thank  ye 

For  helpin'  me  tell  'em. 

And  I'm  glad  I'm  jest  me. 

Now  Shakespeare  or  Milton  and  Riley  maybe 

Must  allers  be  buried  beneath  a  stone 

Somewhere  in  a  crowd  and  never  alone. 

Now  ez  for  me  I  want  to  lie 

In  some  place  under  the  open  sky. 

In  a  pasture  mebbe  where  mosses  foam 

And  children  pick  berries  to  carry  home. 

And  p'raps  right  over  my  peaceful  breast 

Some  little  sparrer  will  build  her  nest. 

And  on  the  headstone  they'll  write  may  be, 

"The  Whistlin'  Poet — Jonas  Green" — thet's  me! 


Fifty-five 


Chums  Yet 

There  were  so  many  things  he  didn't  know, 
My  boyhood  chum  of  the  long  ago, 
That  except  on  one  day  of  seven 
I  had  to  teach  him,  because,  you  see, 
He  was  only  a  boy  of  thirty-three 
And  I  was  a  man  of  eleven. 

On  Sundays  he  left  me  in  lurch 

When  he  went  to  preach  in  the  village  church, 

And  talk  to  folks  about  Heaven. 

'Twas  Heaven  the  rest  of  the  week  to  me 

When  I  played  with  my  chum  of  thirty-three, 

And  taught  him  the  lore  of  eleven. 

I  showed  him  how  to  dig  for  bait 

And  where  the  berries  ripened  late 

Against  an  old  stone  wall; 

The  black  snake's  hole,  the  king-bird's  nest, 

The  swimming  pool  I  liked  the  best, 

Hemmed  in  by  alders  tall. 

We  sailed  and  fished  upon  the  bay, 

Tramped  through  the  fields  and  raked  the  hay 

Or  drove  the  country  over; 

And  while  he  made  his  parish  calls 

I  grass-greened  my  clean  overalls 

Rolling  among  the  clover. 

Fifty-six 


Somehow  I  never  seemed  to  see 

# 

That  he  was  really  teaching  me, 

So  gentle  was  his  guile; 

For  he  would  say,  "Of  course  you  know 

That  such  a  thing  is  so  and  so, 

You've  known  it  all  the  while." 

Of  course  a  fellow  had  to  do 
Just  what  he  said  to  make  it  true. 
So  if  he  thought  me  good, 
Why,  hang  it  all,  I  had  to  be; 
Though  if  I  failed  I  knew  that  he 
Never  misunderstood. 

Still  on  through  all  my  college  days 
There  came  his  helpful  note  of  praise 
To  aid  my  least  endeavor; 
And  now  in  all  my  manhood  prime 
That  friendship  of  a  boyhood  time 
Nor  years  nor  space  can  sever. 

I  love  him  now  as  I  loved  him  then, 
He  is  still  the  wisest  and  best  of  men 
That  dwells  in  Earth  or  Heaven ; 
He's  as  blithe  in  spirit,  it  seems  to  me, 
As  when  he  was  a  lad  of  thirty-three 
And  I  was  a  man  of  eleven. 


Fifty-seven 


Memorial  Day 


Back  in  the  town,  the  old,  old  town,  the  town  where  I 

was  born, 
Some   gray-haired   men   are   carrying   a    faded    flag   this 

morn. 

And    groups    of    eager    children    from    all    the    country 

side 
Are  bringing  wreaths  of  flowers  gathered  from  far  and 

wide. 

Down  through  the  village  street  they  pass  with  muffled 

fife  and  drum, 
"Fall   in!    Atttention,   Comrades!     Brothers,    again    we 

come." 

Under     the     elms     and     maples     fresh      foliaged      by 

May 
Out    to    the    quiet    graveyard    slowly    they    take    their 

way. 

And  today  my  thoughts  turn  backward  half  a  century 

of  years, 
I  see  the  low  beamed  sitting  room,   I  see  my  mother's 

tears. 

The    purring    cat,    the    hearth    rug,    and    I    remember 

still 
A     pot     of     flowers     blooming     upon     the     window 

sill. 

Fifty- eight 


I  hear  the  sound  of  weeping  and  the  solemn  tock-tick- 

tock 
Of  the  pendulum  slow  swinging  in   the   old   eight   day 

clock. 

Too    young    to    tell    the    time    I    was,    yet    knew    the 

moment  when 
The  creeping  hands  moved  slowly  and  stood  at  half-past 

ten. 

That  marked  the  hour  of  parting  and  the  stage  was  at 

the  door 
To    take    my    elder    brothers    off    to    something    they 

called   War. 

Sturdy  and  tall,  and  handsome,  they  stood  there,  shoulder 

to  shoulder, 

One    of    them   was   just    fourteen,    the    other   one    year 
older. 

Proud  and   excited  they  chattered,   eager  and   ready  to 

start, 
Men    they    were    in    stature,    but    boys,    mere    boys,    at 

heart. 

And   none  of   us   knew   who   stood   there   watching   the 

gallant  scene 
That  one  would  come  back  to  his  mother — dead — and 

not  yet  sixteen. 

Fifty-nine 


V  «>  t."  «i    1 
He  fell  in  the  battle  at  Newbern,  ah!  but  the  end  was 

sweet, 

For  he  gave  his  life  to  Freedom  and  died  ere  he  knew 
Defeat. 

Under   the   elms   and   maples   sound   the   low   fife   and 

drum, 
"Forward!      Attention,      Comrades!      Brothers,      again 


we  come." 


Sixty 


LD  21-100w-7,'33 


YC   14703 

U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD4bb720S5 


34196? 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


